


Raven and Red

by chewysugar



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Archie Andrews Has a Big Dick, Drunkenness, F/M, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Orgasm, Sex, The lost Weekend, Vaginal Fingering, Veronica's POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-22 06:50:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10691955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewysugar/pseuds/chewysugar
Summary: They're both in pain from the mess that their lives have become. Veronica has been with boys before, but never has she been with someone like Archie. They could be something together, but for now, sex after Jughead's doomed birthday party is enough.





	Raven and Red

When I was five, I saw a stray kitten trapped in a gutter on Fifth Avenue. I remember that it was raining, and that our limo was stuck in traffic. I looked out the window and saw the ginger tabby struggling to get its little body free of the metal grate. I didn’t think twice—I just ran out of the car, into the downpour and gently pulled it free. Daddy was furious, but Mom understood. She said that it was in my nature. I kept the kitten, of course, until it ran away.

Maybe that’s why there’s that spark between Archie and I. Maybe it’s because I can see that there's something wrong in his world—not that it’s hard to come by people in Riverdale who aren’t dealing with Jackie Collins levels of drama. But it’s the juxtaposition of strength and painful vulnerability that makes Archie so damn lovable to me.

Or maybe I really am just desperate and hormonal. He is, after all, possibly the hottest guy I have ever seen in my life. He’s not like Chuck and Reggie and Moose—they all camp out at the gym and drink protein shakes like _Smart Water_. Archie’s strength is honest, from the sweat of his brow. It’s real, hard work that made his arms so damn powerful and his body so rugged--born of his need to help his father. Entirely unselfish, which sums him up in a nutshell.

And as I climb into his lap, that strength just about takes my breath away. He’s hard, everywhere. Except for his lips, and his eyes. It occurs to me, as his big hands rove up my sides and come to rest on my breasts, that this is the first time of heavily making out with someone that I have my eyes open. I’m so used to either over-eager rich boys fresh from The Hamptons, or else over-confident douchebros like Chuck Clayton, who think that jacking off to Jenna Jameson has left them with the intimate knowledge of how to touch a girl.

Archie, on the other hand…well, he’s more than just a lay to me. He’s a friend, a best friend, really—a friend in need. He peels my top over my head, his hands exploring the front of my bra and the flesh that the dark purple lace barely contains. I realize, grinding against the beautiful and, if I’m being perfectly honest, quite large, hardness in his jeans, that I want to help him as much as I want him to…not fuck me, but _make love_ to me. It’s such a flowery thing to say, and I left flowery behind before my Sweet Sixteen, but that's the skinny of it. I want the sugar sweet moonlight and rainbows of a young girl's fantasy.

He presses his lips against the middle of my throat, and I choke out a cry, not giving a damn that there are empty bottles of beer, potato chips and half smoked nugs littering the ground around us. It’s not a beautiful, perfect setting—it’s not a balcony overlooking the Pacific at sunset, or a bearskin rug in the Alps. It’s raw, dirty and so brutally honest and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I take Archie’s jaw—his strong, cut jaw—between my fingers and hold his face up, looking into his eyes. They’re a little out of focus—he had so damn much to drink, even before Little Miss Bitch and Prince Fuckwad crashed poor Juggie’s little surprise shindig. But he isn’t too far gone that he doesn’t hold my gaze. His eyes are so fucking beautiful in spite of everything he’s had to endure—so innocent, despite that fact that I know he bypassed innocence months ago. And still, there’s that hurt there, that uncertainty—he’s this odd, heartbreaking combination of lost little boy and jaded young man.

I kiss him, pulling him to me. He tastes like Scotch—not the most expensive kind, but I am so beyond caring. That taste is completely Archie Andrews, and he’s part of my life now and what in the hell did someone who used to be as cruel as me do to ever deserve being touched and kissed by somebody so kind?

Our lips part, and it’s messy and there’s a string of saliva that makes me think about _Cruel Intentions_. But before I even have a chance to giggle at the sudden thought, he’s got his hands on me again, leaving prickling heat on my skin. A moment later, three thousand dollars worth of designer _La Perla_ bra joins all the crap on the floor. I don’t even care at this point. Money has only ever destroyed good things—only ever hurt decent people like the wonderful boy who is now kissing my bare breasts.

I make a mental note to send a think you to Miss Grundy, or Jennifer Gibson or Humbert Humbert or whatever the fuck her name is. She stole something from Archie, yes, but goddamn if she did not teach him well. I’ve never had somebody kiss me and touch me the way Archie is now. My fingers curl into the back of his t-shirt, and I growl at the feeling of the obstruction

“You’re a little overdressed, Archiekins,” I sigh, because he’s nibbling at my nipple and I’m finding it a little hard to breathe. He surfaces, grinning up at me like a little kid who just swung a homerun at a peewee baseball game. I laugh, wild and abandoned and then yank Archie’s shirt up.

“Holy shit.” I can’t help it. He’s beautiful—perfect, honest muscle and hardness and even then it isn’t enough. There’s more he could offer me—so much more, I remind myself as I rub against the hard-on in his pants.

Archie groans, throwing his head back. I make quick work of his belt, but before I can pull it through, he’s picking me up and carrying me across the battlefield, sidestepping the remains of the now deceased party that never should have been.

“So strong,” I whisper, nipping at his lip. He’s carrying me bridal style up the stairs. It occurs to me as he kicks the door to his bedroom down that this is probably the first time he’s taken control. This beast, this lion in his domain, was something that an obsessive control freak pedophile like Grundy wouldn’t let out of the cage. I can see it in his eyes, feel it in his breath.

And yet, he lays me on his bed gently, and it’s enough to break my heart. Oh Archiekins—stop being so damn nice to me. I can’t stand it. I can’t bear it. I’m not worth it.

He’s over me, kissing his way down my body, over my throat, between my breasts and down my stomach. I’m already wet from how badly I want this. I breathe in, great, gasping lungfuls of air, watching him through half-open eyes as he watches me. This is his bed, I realize—his blankets where he sleeps and worries and dreams and beats off.

I feel like the worst pervert for moaning at the image. But I’m a woman, and at this moment, a woman so overcome by lust and something like love that I don’t care that I’m dying to see what Archie has underneath those plain-as-toast _Levi’s_.

“Archie.” God, my voice is all levels of Anastasia Steele needy. “Wanna see you. Need to see you.”

He’s been teasing his way towards my panties, completely drunk on the taste and feel and smell of me.

It’s so strange. He seems almost shy as he gets up, crawling towards me. His belt is half undone, but he doesn’t make any move to go further with it.

Nobody denies Veronica Lodge what she wants. And right now what I want is to have him bared to me—to see him as he really is: a man in all his strong, vulnerable glory.

I growl again, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him along the rest of the way up. Then I take him by surprise and flip him over so that he’s on his back.

Archie stares at me with wide eyes, and I feel a little guilty. He’s still drunk, and I know better than anyone how not fun it is to feel the effects of sudden vertigo while under the influence. That, and he probably didn’t anticipate that somebody of my build would be so strong.

“Ronnie. How did you—

“Muay thai classes, Archiekins. I’m full of surprises. And so, apparently, are you.” I kiss his pec, and at the same time, my hand closes over that beautiful bulge in his pants. Archie hisses, his hips canting up at my touch. But when I look at him again, his head is turned to the side. Like he's embarrassed.

“Archie? What’s wrong? Do you not want to—

“No, I do.” He’s breathing like he’s just run a mile, and given that I’ve seen him jogging in all his shirtless glory at four in the morning sometimes, I know that whatever it is that’s bothering him is serious.

He turns his head, and he looks so defenseless that it just about breaks my heart. “It’s just…it hurt her. Y’know. Her. She always said I was too big. ”

I frown. He’s talking about Riverdale’s own Debra Lafave. “What do you mean?”

He sighs, braces himself on one strong arm and undoes his belt and pulls his zipper down. The next second, Little Archie is standing to attention, and it’s anything but little.

I laugh a little, and kiss Archie on the forehead. “Let’s get something straight, Red. I’m not that little twiggy predator.” My hand closes around him, and Archie groans a little. It’s all I can do not to do the same because he really is big. Way bigger than any I’ve ever had. “I can take it. In fact, it’ll be a real damn pleasure.”

“I don’t wanna hurt you, Ronnie.” He’s staring at me with those innocent, world-weary eyes of his. His Adam’s apple bobs as I gently stroke him, and my heart wants to break. No boy has ever said something like that to me before. And very few people have ever taken the time to consider how I might feel or what I might want.

I kiss him, slow and deep, by hand still gliding along the hot, slick length of him.

“You really are something else. Where have you been all my life, Archie Andrews?”

He smiles shyly, and it’s so damn cute. “In a little town called Riverdale, Veronica Lodge.”

For a moment we stay like that, the sound of our breath mingling into a quiet symphony in the small space of his bedroom. The slick sound of my hand moving along his dick is music to my ears, and evidently to his. But he’s nowhere near close, and again, that’s something I make a mental note to say to the judge if ever I have to give a character reference to one Geraldine Grundy, whoever the fuck she is: yes, your honor, she did have carnal relations with a minor, but holy shit did it give him the best stamina of any sixteen year old I have ever had the pleasure of sleeping with.

It isn’t enough though, to be on top of him and making out and stroking him nice and slow. I need him harder than I’ve ever needed anything, needed even oxygen. And I don’t want to be the dominant one. I want to feel his weight over me, feel the shield of his strong chest and those powerful, protective arms as he sheathes himself inside of my body.

Our eyes lock, and some kind of synchronicity lets him know what I want. He rolls us over so easily, and it makes me giggle because he’s so eager even though this isn’t the first time he’s been with a girl. Or maybe it is, but I’m not about to argue semantics.

He peels my panties off and tucks them in the back pocket of the jeans now hiked down around his ankles. I laugh, loud and wild and reckless. Archie grins like a fox.

“Sorry,” he says. “I’m, uh…just a little greedy.”

“Don’t sweat it, Archiekins. I’ve got more where that came from.”

“Oh good. I can start a collection.”

This has always been there beneath his All-American Boy persona: this wild, carefree, randy little bugger. His fingers ghost over my skin, across my hip before he settles at my wet heat. I gasp as he slowly, carefully parts me with one long finger, entering my core and making me squirm. He’s looking into my eyes as he slowly, lovingly fingers me. And he’s not pleased with himself, not the way some boys are. He’s watching me because he wants to see how I’m feeling, to see if he’s doing the right thing. The pad of his thumb brushes against my clit, and I cry out a little too loudly, not caring that Betty and Jughead are probably still here.

This feels too damn good. Not just the feeling of Archie’s finger inside of me, or the heat of his body near me, or the weight of his dick. The whole thing—knowing that he’s doing this for me as much as for himself. He’s helping me as much as he’s helping himself, and helping himself to me. We can forget about how screwed up our family’s are; about how messed up things at Riverdale High have gotten in these last short months.

I breathe in the smell of his skin and his sweat, and it’s better than _Clive Christian_ perfume. I want to bottle it, to have it with me—to wear the scent of Archie Andrews on me and have everyone in town fucking know it. That I'm letting him claim me.

He reaches over me and across to his bedside table for a packet of condoms.

“Boy Scout,” I tease, even though there’s absolutely zero of my usual conviction in my voice.

Archie just smirks at me, tearing the foil open with his teeth.

I grab his wrist. I want to do this for him, just so I can feel that heavy weight in my fingers once more. Archie’s eyes are on me the entire time; his breath catches in his throat as I sit up and roll the rubber over him. And instead of falling back against the pillows, I wrap my arms around his broad shoulders. His finger leaves me, and an agonizingly long few seconds later, its replaced by the length and width of him.

Fuck, but he was right. He’s a big boy, something I’m sure is cause for a lot of envy in the showers. It dimly occurs to me that this is why Reggie Mantle gives Archie so much grief. There’s nothing like penis envy to make men and boys turn into bigger backstabbing bitches than the entire cast of _Real Housewives_.

But this isn’t about Reggie, or even Archie’s impressive dick. It’s about us—him and me; Archie and Veronica. And as he moves in and out with almost loving reverence for my body, I almost want to cry for the umpteenth time that night.

He’s looking at me like I’m something he’s never seen or felt before. And yes, I’ll admit, it does make me feel a little bit proud of myself. There’s not a hobo’s chance in _Bloomingdale’s_ that he ever looked at Grundy this way, and certainly not Betty. It’s so wrong of me to be comparing myself to either of them.

Something of my uncertainty must show in my eyes, because Archie kisses me again.

“So good,” he whispers. “Never felt anything like this, Ronnie.”

And Archie Andrews doesn’t lie. But I do. So do Betty and Jughead and all of our parents. Archie is honor and loyalty and chivalry in the immense and endowed package of the Boy Next Door. He doesn’t have it in him to feed me bullshit when he’s moving inside of me so exquisitely.

He has me against the pillows a moment later, his fingers lacing with mine as he continues to rock into me. And not once does he look away. Not once does he close his eyes. There’s something there, something bright and hopeful like a midnight wish on shooting star—something that could burn out as it falls through the inky black infinity of the night sky.

This could be the start of something like I’ve never felt before. Something that is both terrifying and so thrilling. And it could also just be what it is—just two teenagers jacked up on angst and life and lust and hormones finding a shred of infinity in the finite road of life. It’s so strange to me that I’m okay with that, because I’ve so often been the girl who wants it all—the ride or die carnivore who devours everything in hopes of hiding the cuts and scrapes and the unpretty on my perfect body. But this is meaningful, important…special, if that doesn’t sound too much like a passage from a Judy Blume novel.

But what the ever loving fuck does Judy Blume know about this? I’ve had sex before, but this is so much more than sex, even though the mechanics are the same—it’s Archie’s hard, magnificent cock sheathed inside of my tight, wet pussy; it’s his hands on my hips, his lips on mine. It’s the sweat of our bodies, and the gasp of our breaths; it’s also so, so much more.

I’m not just a lay to this boy—this beautiful, broken but still fighting boy. And I can see in his eyes—feel in his touch and hear in his gasps, grunts and groans—that I’m not just a piece of tail to him.

Archie buries his head in my neck, biting into my skin. I feel something in me tighten, feel a rush to every single one of my senses. It’s so strange because I’ve gotten to this pinnacle before, but never with another boy. It's always been on my own, messing in the danger zone without a chaperone. I almost want to deny what my body and mind are telling me, because it’s too fucking cliché that I’m about to have an orgasm because I’m making love with someone I actually care about. But then all that goes out the window.

“ _Archie_.” I say his name over and over again, grasping at his skin, feeling the heat of his body and the rush of his breath against my neck. He’s grunting, his thrusts becoming more erratic. Yes, this is going to happen. Yes, I might be in love with one of my best friends. Yes, I feel like I’m being pumped with a million warm volts of electric heat. Yes. Yes. _Yes_.

“ _V-Veronica_.” Archie’s groan is strangled, and he kisses my throat. I curl my fingers into his beautiful ginger hair. My toes curl and I gasp out something like a scream as we come together. For one infinite moment, I’m lost in this white nothingness where everything is beautiful and possible and meaningful.

And then it’s over and I’m back down again, here on the bed where Archie’s slept for years, and where we’ve just done something wonderfully irrevocable. He’s trembling, and it’s so damn adorable. For a long time we just lie there together, tangled in each other’s sweat-slicked arms and legs.

Then he gets up. I can’t help but admire the view of his perfect ass as he staggers across the floor to the wastebasket by his computer desk. He yanks the condom, ties it and throws it away. He turns back to face me, a lazy smile on his face. He gets a few steps across the room before he trips; his jeans are still around his ankles and he’s too high off the afterglow and the liquor. He lands on his face on Jughead’s mattress.

“Oh my God!” I’m almost off the bed. But Archie’s laughing, his whole body shaking. He rolls over, his arm over his eyes.

“Guess I’m overshooting it.”

I grin. “Maybe.”

“Think I’ll just stay down here. Hope that’s okay, Ronnie. I don’t wanna upchuck all over you in your sleep.”

“Cute.” I grip one of the pillows and throw it at his head. Yeah, I’m disappointed. I want to sleep in the arms of my Prince Charming. But again, there’s something about Archie’s innocent helplessness that I find endearing, just like that trapped little kitty-cat all those years ago. I can’t be mad at him, no matter how hard I try, and not just because he’s given me the best sex of my life thus far.

I lie back on his bed, pulling the covers up. Again, I think about all that these sheets have seen. Our lovemaking is just one of the many notches in the threads now. And yes, I’m hoping for a repeat performance. But for now, this is enough.

Archie falls asleep almost moments later. And I can’t help but tiptoe out of bed and gently tug his jeans back up his legs. The last thing in the world I want is to traumatize Juggie by having him walk in on his blood brother in the buff. And the last thing I want is to have Jughead see me the same way. So I put my clothes back on. Archie’s going to hang onto my panties—I purr a little at the thought of him sniffing the purple lace while he beats off.

My hormones have plateaued. I want to sleep, just a little. Because when I sleep, I can dream about the possibility of us—of Archie and me: of the Damaged Boy Next Door and the Poor Little Rich Girl. Just before I finally drift off, I see us, and all the things we could be.

Somehow what we are right now seems to suffice.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first heterosexual love scene I've written in several...years.


End file.
